In Favour of Fools: A Science Fiction Comedy (These Foolish Things Book 1) (10 page)

Julie and Jim were having a lovely evening.

They had started off in an independent coffee shop that catered for young, cash-rich, single people who wanted a more complete experience than was possible in the chain shops.

It was the open-mike evening, so they were able to enjoy a varied entertainment offering including traditional Scottish poetry (something about a wee mousy), followed by a nineteen eighties mock boy band.

The last act before they left for alcohol accessible premises was an old guy with a popular oral history act.

‘I’m not from these parts, folks,’ he began, supporting his gaunt bent body on the microphone stand; and holding an actual tobacco cigarette in his hand. ‘I call no place home, but to no place am I a stranger.’

He coughed and took a long drag. ‘You know...' He coughed again. 'People my age always say they were at the London Olympics, and you wouldn’t guess it to look at me, but I wasn’t just there; I actually competed; I wasn’t far off making the 800 metres final.’

His accent was indeterminate; he could have been from anywhere in North America, or maybe he just spent a lot of time there. Julie wanted to check him out on her wrist-top to see how much bull he was talking, but Jim suggested that it was time they left.

As they got up from their table, the orator had moved on to his time on the space shuttle.

They trawled through a number of bars; sticking mostly to alcohol, with the occasional rec-drug to enhance the buzz.

As the early hours approached, they made their way back to Jim’s home. He was quite relieved that his mother was away for a few days, so they would have the whole house to themselves.

They were relaxing in his private lounge, and things were getting very touchy-feely.

When she came up for air, Julie asked if she could take a shower.

‘Of course you can. Do you want company?’

‘Now, now; don't get ahead of yourself, young man. I just need a quick shower; I’m feeling all hot and sweaty; I can't think why.’

As she spoke, she removed her bracelets and wrist-top and left them on the coffee table.

‘I won’t be long. Why don’t you fix us another drink?’

Listening to the sound of the shower, Jim picked up her wrist-top. He tut-tutted at the lack of security features and downloaded its contents to his own state of the art device. Then he replaced it on the table and went to sort out the drinks. It was developing into a wonderful night, he thought.

Julie’s ring-alarm alerted her to the security breach on her wrist-top. Phil had given her the ring as a present when he first got his P.I. starter kit, as it wasn’t really his style; though he did keep the magnifying glass, and the pipe.

When she stepped out of the shower, she put on an old dressing gown; it was far too big for her and hung close to her ankles as she sat on the edge of the bath.

She was disappointed, but not surprised by Jim's breach of etiquette.

The searches she’d requested after he had left the office that afternoon had, at first, proved fruitless. Aware of Phil’s big case with Masters, Julie had suspected that Jim’s visit was connected, so she put both of the names into her search engines; Benjamin Masters and James Prentis Evans. There were no hits until she reduced the search to just Evans and then the connection was clear to see. Masters had killed Jim’s dad, and he could only be looking for vengeance.

Now Jim was undoubtedly cute, especially with those eyes, but, if he was going to become a killer, she didn’t want him anywhere near her big brother. The little diversions she had left for him, hidden away on her wrist-stop, would ensure that didn’t happen.

As she strolled back into the lounge, she was in two minds as to what to do next. Should she go ahead and bed the boy? Or was it all getting just a little bit too complicated.

How she resolved that problem, and whatever happened during the rest of the night is no-one else’s business.

*********

The following morning, Jim read through the files he’d downloaded from Julie’s wrist-top again. This was going to get very complicated, he thought. He’d expected to find that Chandler had tracked Masters to a particular place and that was why he’d gone after him. According to Julie’s records, however, he had a list of six planets where there was good evidence that they could be Masters’ final destination, and Chandler was working his way through the list, one by one. It was a slow, tortuous way to do it, and the actual evidence supporting each planet’s claim was not shown on Julie’s wrist-top, so there was no way for Jim to make his own judgment.

All he had to go on were Chandler’s stats showing the percentage points of likelihood for each world.

Welcome – 63.5%

David – 62%

Nirvana – 59%

The Way of Enlightenment – 57.8%

Redwood - 57.3%

Insha'Allah – 56.5%

Jim closed his wrist-top and stretched. If Chandler was on Welcome, should he follow him there? Or should he take a chance that the first planet on the list wouldn’t bear fruit and get ahead of the game by going straight to David? Or would it be better to let Chandler do the leg work and pounce at the last minute?

No answer jumped out at him, though he was confident that he would find the right one soon enough. Maybe a shower would help. In the bathroom, he noticed the absence of his old dressing gown and smiled.

For a few fleeting moments he forgot about Masters.

It had to happen eventually and there I was, on Brian’s back, following the magnificent stallion that was carrying Strange. Spittoon had given me a small wooden stool on a rope, so I was able to mount my beast and hang the rope around his neck for future use.

The blanket didn’t provide much in the way of cushioning and I had to sit quite close to his shoulders to stop him from reaching around and taking a chunk out of my leg with his disproportionately large teeth, but I felt we were making some progress. At least, he was prepared to walk at a leisurely pace along the flat smooth road.

Spittoon had sold me the information that Masters (Johnson) was travelling to a small town some fifty kilometres from the Squirtport. The place was named Hell and High Water and was just off the main highway. I was certain that Strange was impressed when I passed on this expensive nugget, though he hid it well.

‘If we leave now and camp out overnight, we can be there early morning,’ he said, in a matter of fact manner.

‘We could sleep in the hotel room and arrive tomorrow afternoon more rested and ready for action,’ I suggested, without much hope.

‘We can’t afford to waste any more time.’

I could have said something at that; I hadn’t wasted any time at all, and I didn’t spend any time in the bar, so he couldn’t blame me. Then I wondered who else he would blame and decided to hold my peace.

By early evening I had managed to coax Brian into catching up with the horse and decided to try to engage Strange in conversation. It seemed the sort of thing that travelers would do; at least that’s what always happened in the films I’ve watched.

‘How long have you known Mrs. Masters?’ I tried.

He sighed and nudged his horse forward.

Five minutes later I caught up with him again.

‘Do you know her well?’ She was all we had in common.

‘What is this? Smalltalk?’

I nodded. ‘We might as well; to pass the time.’

For a long time, he was silent and I was trying to come up with another gambit.

‘We worked together; me and Masters. A long time ago.’

It probably wasn’t very wise of me to ask for details, but you know me.

‘What sort of ... jobs did you do?’

‘Nothing I’m going to tell you about.’

‘But you’re with Mrs. Masters now?’

‘When he went inside, he asked me to look after her.’

I wanted to ask how close they were, but I couldn’t think of a way to phrase the question that wouldn’t result in a smack in the face.

‘What will you do now?‘

He turned slowly and looked down at me; horses are great for that.

‘I think I’ll stop answering your questions now.’

Well, you can’t say I didn’t try.

We travelled along in silence; just the clippity-clop of hooves, and a syncopation of groans from Brian as he approached the end of his willingness to walk.

When night began to fall, Strange stopped at a small stand of trees nestling up to the side of the road.

‘This will do,’ he said, swinging one leg over the back of his saddle and dropping easily to the ground.

I nodded wisely, studying the terrain whilst I worked out how to get off Brian. In truth, I wasn’t far from the ground; it was just that the mechanics of the operation were not immediately apparent to me. In the end, I leant forward and hugged his neck and sort of slid off his back in a somewhat ungraceful fashion. I groaned at my aching legs and released Brian’s neck; he immediately took the opportunity to take a bite out of my sleeve.

‘Don’t leave him in the middle of the road.’

‘There’s no traffic. He’ll be fine.’

‘Lead him onto the grass, so he can feed.’

‘Won’t he do that himself? When he’s hungry? Surely he can see the grass from where he’s standing.’

‘You should get him some water as well.’

‘Is this really the best way to travel? If we had a car, we’d be there in an hour.’

‘Motor vehicles are only used for transportation of livestock here. Everything else is on foot or hoof.’

I found a small pond on the other side of the trees and prodded Brian in its general direction. Strange’s horse was already slurping noisily, having had the wit to discover the water for himself.

I folded the horse blanket into a pillow and settled down in the shelter of a multi-blossomed tree. With the scent of the blossoms and the sparkle of the slowly emerging stars, it was an idyllic setting, if you could ignore the hard ground, the pointy stones, the smell of the horse and mule, and Strange’s quite spectacular snoring.

I woke up as dawn peeped over the horizon, stiff and hungry and far from rested. Strange was lying on his back, with his eyes closed and his mouth open. I was so tempted to drop something into it, but I’m not that much of a fool. Some people appear sweet and innocent when they sleep; not Strange. He just looked as if he was dreaming of all the nasty things he would do when he awoke.

I left him to his slumber and took a stroll to stretch out the kinks a night with nature had given me. That was when I saw the birds. I don’t know much about birds; they don’t have proper faces and that makes me nervous, but I did recognise these big birds as carrion eaters imported for sanitary reasons. They were flapping around a particular spot a few hundred metres from our position. It wouldn’t do any harm to take a look, I thought, so I strolled along the road.

There was something lying still on the meadow, 50 metres from the road. As I walked through the dew-speckled grass, the form began to take shape and there he was; displayed and flayed. He’d been a big guy before he died; that much I could tell. Up close, I could see that his body was ripped and clawed; chunks had been torn from his flesh; one arm was missing and the other one chewed and mangled almost beyond recognition. His face, however, was barely touched; just one ear gone and a bloody rip across the forehead.

Of course, I knew his face. I’d spent so long looking at CCTV images of the two big guys that I couldn’t fail to recognise him. It was Johnson, and our time on this planet was coming to an end.

I heard a faint noise and Strange was beside me.

He hissed; then he shook his head. ‘The ar-furs must have got him. Nothing else here could do that to a man.’

I held my peace, again. I could think of another creature that could have done that to him, and it made sense; sort of. If they wanted everyone to think Masters had come to this place; that he was no longer a player in their criminal world, then it also made sense to have the substitute killed; to end the story here.

The fact that they left his face relatively undamaged just made that all seem much clearer.

(To be strictly honest, these conclusions came to Phil much later, but he asked me to manipulate the sequence to put him in a better light. N.F.)

Strange began to walk around the mangled corpse, examining the body from every angle. When he’d completed a full circle, he stepped closer and rummaged in what remained of the dead man’s jacket. He pulled out his wallet and checked his ID, nodding.

‘That’s a confirmed death, then,’ he grunted as he bent to replace the wallet. ‘We can go home and report to Mrs. Masters.’

I could have told him that this was not Masters; that it was just some patsy dragged in for the job; that we were not yet finished, and that I knew where to find the real Masters. I could have given him a full picture of the situation, but I didn’t.

I can’t say that our little sojourn in that western idyll was entirely awful; I got to ride a mule after all. Despite that, I didn’t want to extend our partnership any further. Not just because I thought I’d do better on my own, without his uncomfortable presence; though that was a part of it. The main reason for my reticence was that I quite liked my body the way it was, even though I was fairly unsuccessful at persuading the female side of humanity to concur with this view. Someone had already died, and there was a very good chance that he wouldn’t be the last. I felt that keeping my distance from Strange was a good place to start my keeping myself alive project.